This past winter break, I participated in Yeshiva University’s Solidarity Mission to Israel. There were many aspects of the trip, including learning about the Arab-Israeli conflict. We heard from journalists and CEOs dedicated to truthful reporting; we learned about an integrated Arab-Israeli school aimed at nurturing coexistence; and we heard from activists who encourage Arab-Israeli dialogue. In short, we spoke about the power of dialogue—the impact that words can have in discussing a conflict. Many of the speakers had the same message: this immense conflict can be solved with words.
It all seemed so simplistic within the complexity of the larger issue. The question became not whether dialogue is the beginning of the solution, but ‘how can we foster an environment that allows for such dialogue?’ It was clear that words could solve the problem if we could only discuss the issues rationally.
So I asked myself, “Why can’t everyone sit down and calmly discuss the situation? Why must the issue be so heated? Why can’t both sides recognize the other and move on to create a solution?” It would be so simple. That is, until we absorbed the deep emotions that grip this conflict.
On January 18th, 2016, Dafna Meir was killed in her home in Otniel by a 15 year old Palestinian terrorist. Dafna’s 17 year old daughter, Renana, described the event and how her mother died protecting her and her siblings by preventing the terrorist from removing the knife from her chest.
Just a few days later, I, along with the 19 other Yeshiva University students on the mission, visited the shiva house—the house of mourning. We split up between the father and younger children who were sitting upstairs; Renana was sitting downstairs. Upon entering the house, the expected feeling of mourning enveloped us but it seemed to lift as I continued downstairs into Renana’s room. We sat with the 17 year old young woman who witnessed her mother’s murder. We laughed as she relayed to us her conversations with Bibi Netanyahu and Naftali Bennet. She asked us questions and told us about her hopes for Tzahalia—a pre-army learning program for young women—and her first choice unit in the IDF.
We responded. We listened. We laughed.
What can one say when words are inadequate? We could not say that we understood. We did not. We could not say that it would be okay. We had no ability to make such claims. We just sat. We just talked. We just responded to the prompts she initiated.
She expressed many times how impressed she was that we came from America to visit the shiva house. She was impressed with us. If only she knew how I was impressed with her.
What can you say to someone who has experienced everyone’s worst nightmare? What can you offer someone who will never get back the only person she truly wants to speak to? What can you say when words are inadequate?
Nothing. There are no words. There is no answer to this question.
Yet, I found hope in that room. I gained inspiration from that daughter without a mother—a young woman who still gets excited when discussing the IDF unit she hopes join.
This young woman lost so much but is prepared to give so much more. She didn’t express despair. She didn’t offer answers. She simply discussed her preparation to continue living by the values her mother had emphasized.
I learned an incredibly impactful lesson that day. Words fail. We had not words to offer. Nothing we might have said could have changed anything. Nothing we could say would make the pain disappear. Yet we sat. We were present. We were together.
Because, sometimes words are inadequate and there is nothing to say.